


Myth and Legend

by lilo202



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Assassination, Community: capkink, Gen, POV Outsider, Panic Attacks, Unreliable Narrator, the winter soldier is fucking terrifying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 15:32:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1610195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilo202/pseuds/lilo202
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The next day the news reports the death of the senator and his family in a fire at their house. There were no survivors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Myth and Legend

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt.](http://capkink.dreamwidth.org/1349.html?thread=113221#cmt113221)

He drums his figures on the table. "Are you sure this is necessary?" He asks impatiently, there's probably a small mountain of paperwork that is piling high in his office right now. He could be working on it, or getting ready for the vote next week, but instead he's stuck here – in a pesdo-nuclear shelter – satisfying the paranoia of people who see enemies in every shadow.

The bodyguard that’s assigned to him looks like one of the greenest rookie he ever saw, young and nervous and eager to please. He looks just as uncomfortable as him, and every so often he twitches in a particular manner that suggests he would prefer doing something – anything – other than babysitting him. "Absolutely, sir." The man answers.

He bravely resists the urge to bury his head in his hands and groan. "And why, pray tell, is that?" He doesn't expect an answer; the kid is obviously not part of the decisions makers. For some unfathomable reason someone out there decided that giving the rookie the role of a bodyguard is a good idea. But what does he know? Maybe his bodyguard is a mutant with some awe-inspiring power.

Or maybe, his traitorous mind whispers, maybe if someone manage to get to you through all of the security it wouldn't matter exactly _who_ is guarding you, so it's better to not waste someone valuable.

Shush you, he whispers back.

The kid fidgets in his place, his fingers inch towards the hem of his shirt before he catches himself and starts rambling instead, "Well, I wasn't told anything official sir, but I was passing by and saw the guys playing cards during break and I thought, hey why not join them? Been a long time since we hung-out together but then I heard they were talking business and since they never tell me _anything_ anymore I kinda- sorta- eavesdropped on them." He admits and swallows heavily, his eyes are tracking non-existing movements in the corners of the room as he lowers his voice to a nervous whisper, as if whatever he says next could summon the very beast itself from the shadows, "They said- they said the Winter Soldier is after you, sir." And if he didn't know better he would say that the kid is one part awed seven parts crapping-in-his-pants scared from the guy.

The prospect of introducing his head to the desk seems more and more enticing with every passing minute, but he's a grown man and he knows how to control his urges. Somewhat. "The Winter Soldier?" He asks dubiously, letting his thoughts on the subject be known. "The dog that ate everyone's homework during the cold war?"

"He exists! My uncle saw him." The kid says vehemently "Uncle Clark said he was like death coming to life, tearing through the security force like it was wet tissue paper- he said he could melt into the shadows like he was part of them and then appear out of nowhere and start killing people before anyone knows what happens." And then his voice is small as he turns his gaze towards the floor, "He crippled Uncle Clark, shot him in the spine, but that's- that's probably the only reason why my uncle got away with his life." 

His expression softens. "Look, son, I'm sorry about your uncle but you need to understand, there are a lot of stories like your uncle's, and most are no more than just that, stories. Sometimes, when people lose too much blood their or get a strong blow to the head, their mind starts playing tricks on them, showing them thing that they think are real and-"

"My uncle wasn't delusional!-"

A blood-curdling scream pierces the air before being abruptly cut off.

The cry of bullshit dies in his throat.

"What the-"

His bodyguard tenses and pushes him towards the wall and behind him; he trains his gun on the door as the sound of fighting outside escalates and it's all so surreal because this wasn't supposed to _happen_ , it was suppose to be _meaningless_ and _paranoia_ and _over-protectiveness_ , because getting death threats became so routine that he forgot they even meant something.

"Be quiet and stay behind me at all times." The kid says strictly, only he's not a kid is he? He's a professional who saw the white of Death's eyes and came back alive to tell the story; everything else would be ridicules because that ease? That ease with which he carries his gun and angle himself towards the door so his body would come in between any racing bullets and his charge? That's something you can only gain with experience, and that short of experience kills any who are naïve enough to still be called kids.

His hearts beats a drum in his ears; his hands are sleek with sweat. _Calm down_ his mind yells at him _calm the fuck down!_ But through the echo of his harsh breaths he can hear the cries of people bleeding and people dying and _people who are standing in the way of whoever came for him._

 _Shit- shit_ his muscles are locked in their place, the battle is coming towards them, gunshots and the crunch of broken bones and the gurgle of men chocking on their blood- light headedness attack him, something cold and heavy settle in his stomach and light a cold inferno in his vein. His legs wobble and he needs to sit down he needs to sits down did he sit down? He must have because suddenly everything is taller. 

Then the screams stop.

The silence is loud and suffocating and it leaves a ringing in his ears that is only overcome by the shallow breaths desperately trying to get air to his burning lungs. The kid- man- bodyguard is still as a statue, he hasn't budged a millimeter since the attack has started, is he even alive anymore?

Then the door handle is going down, slowly, silently and if he wasn't staring at the door all the while he might have missed that. The man doesn't wait, as soon as the handle twitched he was already shooting, bullets going through the door and hopefully hitting whoever is behind it.

It doesn't work. The handle goes all the way down, the rain of bullets doing nothing to slow it down. "Fuck." His bodyguard says, as his gun stops firing. In a swift movement he replaces the empty clip with a new one, but even as he does so the door is opening. He can almost hear it creaking, impossibly, as the door is regularly oiled. 

The corridor is empty. There's no one there. He wonders if yes, the assassin could melt from shadows and stab him in the back. The thought brings a laugh to his lips; the hysterical sound washes the room and is it just him or is everything brighter now? Those cheapskates, couldn't they have done this earlier, the low lighting have been a murder on his tired old eyes. They would have words afterwards, when this mess is over.

There's a small silver ball slowly rolling on the floor and into the room. Its angle is that that it was probably released at least a meter and a half from the door, his mind notes. "Grenade." His bodyguard mutters, still not moving, "Cover your eyes." He orders in a louder voice when a wall of something green and glowy and see-through springs to life around them.

He does as he's told. He closes his eyes and let himself be swept by his frantic heart and the cold fire in his veins, but it's better than being flayed alive by a grenade – flashbang, his mind corrects when the blast leaves spots in his vision and none of the expected heat comes.

He open his eyes to see a green world with spots – a green world with spots, he almost snorts – blinking doesn't help with the green and the spots keep slipping through his fingers. The green goes away and split second later his bodyguard crumples on the floor with a hole blasted into the back of his head. It's then that he registers the shot. His head snaps to the left, only to have his throat seized by cold, cold fingers.

 _Can't-_ His fingers claw desperately at the arm, but it might as well be made of metal for the good that does for him. _It can't-_ Stop, he tries to croak through a crushed windpipe. _-No._ something hot and sticky and painful trickles past his nails. _Please,_ his blurry eyes try to see past black goggles and black mask and black that takes over his vision _oh please please please…_


End file.
